Free The Night She Disappeared by April Henry Page B

bit of sweat.
    Drew looks down at the pedals. “Jeez, even the pedals are round. Everything is round in this car—the rearview mirror, the gauges, the seat backs—”
    “Someone had fun designing it.” Everything in the world is designed. Someone decided how deep and how wide to make your cereal bowl, how long to make your spoon handle, and what shape to make the puffs or squares you pour into your bowl. I’m always looking at things, deciding if I would make them the same way or not. But the Mini? The Mini I would keep as is.
    When Drew does things in the right order, the car starts smoothly. The melody of the seat belt chime makes us both smile. When we buckle up, our hands brush. I feel funny that I blush and quickly give him directions to my house.
    Drew’s careful. I like that. I watch as he checks his sideview mirror, the rearview mirror, and then my sideview mirror, his hands at three and nine o’clock. Then he lifts his right hand as he turns toward me. At first I think he’s going to touch my face, but instead he rests his fingers on the back of my seat. Keeping his head turned, he slowly backs up.
    Once we’re out of the parking lot, we both relax a little. It’s funny, but when it was me driving I wasn’t that aware of him. Now all I can think about is how close he is. I hear the breath going in and out of his lungs. He has to keep his eyes on the road, but I can study him, his deep-set eyes and his sun-streaked hair. The backs of his fingers have fine blond hairs.
    “So who taught you how to drive?” Drew asks, without taking his eyes off the road.
    “My dad. In the cemetery, really early in the morning. He said there was no one there that I could hurt. When I first got into the driver’s seat, I thought there was something wrong with the car. The gas pedal kept shaking. I told my dad, only it wasn’t the car—it was me. My leg was shaking because I was so nervous.”
    “Maybe it’s good to be a little nervous,” Drew says. “If you’re too confident, then you’ll screw up.”
    “My parents never get nervous,” I say.
    “Never?”
    “Not that I’ve seen. Sometimes they’ll get a call that there’s been a huge car accident, or some kid who lost both his arms in a hay thresher is being Life Flighted in, and when they hear that, they both get amped, like they just drank a lot of coffee. They don’t seem scared at all.”
    “It’s probably good that they love what they do.” His teeth press his lower lip. “I know I wouldn’t want to do that.”
    “Me neither.” I don’t tell Drew that sometimes it seems like my parents are only fully alive at work. “So who taught you how to drive?”
    “First my mom tried to. She’s one of those people who brace their hands on the dash and scream and pray and stomp their feet on imaginary brakes.” He shoots me a sideways glance. “You can imagine how well that worked out. Then she got one of her boyfriends to do it. He made me go out on I-5. I’d had about ten minutes of driving experience, and all of a sudden everyone is going seventy. I think the most I ever managed was forty. I was sweating so much the steering wheel was slippery.” He smiles with that cute crooked grin.
    “That’s like teaching you to swim by throwing you into the deep end of the pool.”
    “Kind of like that, yeah.” His silver eyes flick over to me. “It’s pretty much my mom’s whole approach to being a parent.”
    “And your dad? Where’s he?”
    He shrugs. “No idea. I’ve never met him.”
    I try to imagine that. “Do you know if he’s alive?”
    “My mom’s never told me his name.” His voice gets softer, like he’s talking to himself. “Sometimes I wonder if she even knows it.”
    When we get to my house, the open garage doors show my parents’ matching blue BMWs. My mom’s out on the front step, getting the mail. She does a double take when she sees who is driving the car.
    “Just park on the street,” I tell Drew.
    He bites his lip